


forever is the sweetest con

by annabetncnase



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Other, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabetncnase/pseuds/annabetncnase
Summary: Short story based on Taylor Swift's 'cowboy like me'.Love a conman, expected to be conned.
Relationships: Original Character/Original Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	forever is the sweetest con

_ Slam. _

The tennis ball hit the wall behind me. I was never very good at this game, which they always love -- and so do I. It’s easier to trick someone who thinks he’s incapable of losing.

“I win,” he yelled from the other side of the court, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

I smiled and shrugged. “You’re too good at this game, honey.”

He walked over and took my racket. “I’m getting a drink with Bill. I’ll meet you later at the party?”

I agreed and sat down on a bench near the entrance to the court. It was covered up in some sort of tent. There was a slit between where the two pieces of tarp met at the top that created a sliver of sunlight that stretched out all the way to the end.

That’s where I found Him.

He looked almost out of place. His hair was a bit too disheveled in comparison to the other high-society-gentlement wandering about, but He made up for it in posture and the sharpness of his glare. He fiddled with a handkerchief. Suddenly, He caught my stare, but he did not seem startled.

Without breaking eye contact, He stood up from his bench. He looked at the entrance to the salon, then back at me.  _ Come. _

When He left, I followed.

The room was dark - rich folks seem to enjoy the poorly lit ambience - and soft jazz music played from a speaker in the back of the room. It was the kind of party where everyone just pretended to enjoy themselves, mostly because all the guests hate each other, but love the prestige of having been invited.

He was standing by the speaker, so that is where I went. He analyzed me for a few seconds before speaking.

“Who are you here with?” He asked, a bit loudly to make sure I could hear him over the music.

Strange question. “Why?”

“I’m with Sylvia Wilkerson,” he replied. “You know, the one whose husband died.”

“That’s so sad. Any children?”

“No,” he said, sipping on a bright blue drink.

“So sad.”

He nodded, though He did not look particularly moved.

“I’m with Roger. The host,” I told him.

“I heard about his wife,” he replied. “So unfortunate.”

“Tragic,” I agreed. “He was so lonely before we met.”

He knew. He also knew I knew.

The song ended, and the next one began. He looked around the room before putting out his hand. “A dance?”

“Dancing is a dangerous game,” I said before taking his hand.

We danced by the speaker, where our voices would be drowned up by the music to anyone else but each other. He was close now, very close, and there was no more need to speak up.

“Have you been here before?” I asked. I meant this town, but He knew that.

“No. Word spreads quick, you know.”

I shrugged. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Is that right?”

“I do. I bet you do too.”

“Touché. Takes one to know one.” He paused. “You’ve been here before, then?”

“A long time ago.”

“And your…”

“In Dubai.”

He laughed. “Quite a heartbreaker you must be.”

“I get around.”

He glanced over my shoulder. “I should go. Send Roger my regards.”

“And who should I say they’re from?” I asked.

He smiled and kissed my hand. “I hope to see you soon.”

His lips sent a trail of tingles up my arm. I saw him wrap his arm around a middle aged woman’s age before leaving the room.

* * *

“Honey, do you know Sylvia Wilkerson?”

“Wilkerson? Yeah, she was married to Bob Wilkerson. He died in a plane crash last year.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. Those private planes are never all that safe, anyway. That's why I fly executive. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I smiled and sipped my wine.

* * *

Sylvia Wilkerson’s mansion was absurd. I didn’t know there was someplace like this in Texas - there were paintings on the living room ceiling like the Sistine Chapel and a chandelier twice as large as the dinner table, which was already monumental. The only thing missing was widow Wilkerson herself. Off to a girl’s trip to New York, He said. It’s a widow thing.

He waited for me at the bottom of the staircase, sitting on the second step. If the butler who opened the door for me saw anything wrong about my intrusion, he did not comment on it. I suppose He was paying well enough.

The difference was clear. The disheveled hair was now accompanied by a loose button-up shirt and jeans, unlike the tuxedo He wore on our first meeting. A smile hung loosely from his lips, and even his voice sounded different, a southern accent tinting his words ever so slightly.

“Welcome to the castle,” he said, getting up and walking in my direction.

“Thank you.”

Once again, He kissed my hand.

“You’re a charmer. I bet they fall pretty easy.”

“I do my best.”

“What’d he do, anyway? The deceased.”

“Oil. I don’t know why he decided to live in this shithole of a town, but I suppose the house is nice.”

“A bit much.”

“Probably.”

He led me to the couch and asked the butler for some drinks.

“‘Been here long?” I asked.

“No. You?”

“A few months. I think I’ll be off soon.”

“Where to?”

“Who knows? That’s the fun part, isn’t it?”

He huffed. “Yes. And the cars.”

“I don’t care much for cars. Nowhere to put them.”

“I have my ways,” He explained. “It’s a shame.”

“What is?”

“That you’re leaving soon. It would be fun to have a partner in crime for once.”

His words were tempting, more than they should have been.  _ He  _ was tempting.

“We still have some time,” I reassured him. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do.”

We did. Soon enough, my hands found his chest, his found my back, and our clothes found the floor. Bob Wilkerson was probably rolling in his grave the entire time.

* * *

Weeks turned into months. They should not have. Roger would have bought me the moon if I asked nicely, and yet I waited - not for him. For Him.

Frequent business trips and girl’s trips meant I became acquainted with Widow Wilkerson’s mansion and He became acquainted with Roger’s. At first, I thought,  _ this is going to be one of those things.  _ It is easy as it is to make people believe you love as it is making them believe you are loyal, and so affairs were not uncommon in my line of work. In fact, I have been the affair more than once. It pained me to call Him an affair.

Affairs are illicit, fleeting. I did not want it to be like that. He seemed permanent, special. 

God, I’m so fucking stupid.

* * *

Roger took me with him to Chicago. His mother was ill. I could not get out of coming with him, but I made him promise not to take me to see her.  _ When she’s better,  _ I told him.  _ Illness makes me sad. _ It does not, but he didn’t need to know that. While he was at the hospital, I met my friend Julia. We had met years prior in New York City - I was the one he was cheating on her with. To his surprise, we both took the money and left.

“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” She asked me, swirling a vodka cranberry.

“No reason.”

“Liar. Is he tracking you or something?”

“God, no. He’s not that smart.”

“Then what?” She saw right through my silence. “Did you meet someone? I don’t have to tell you that’s a stupid fucking idea, right?”

“No! Shit, Julia, I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Clearly. It’s been over a year since you’ve been with this guy. That’s way too long. You trying to be his heir or something?”

I sighed. “No. It’s just… I don’t know. It feels different this time.”

Julia laughed in disbelief, and if I were her, I would too. I could hear how stupid I sounded. I just kept making it worse for myself every day I stayed with Roger, but I could not bring myself to just buy the goddamn plane tickets and leave everything behind.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too.”

* * *

_ Is this your man? _

The text from Julia accompanied a picture. It was him and some other woman, presumably one of his past victims.

_ Yes,  _ I responded.  _ Where did you get that photo? _

_ He was here a couple of years ago. _

_ And? _

_ I hear the stories… He’s a household name out here. _

_ I’m sure we’ve all been there. _

_ Sure…  _

* * *

The best days were when I woke up next to him. My guilt for not leaving dissolved when his lips were on mine and his hands were pulling on my skirt. Later, I’d tell Roger it ripped in the dryer. He believed me every single time.

He moved quietly, as is a requirement in the industry. We learn to leave without a trace - not a lipstick stain, not a fingerprint. Here is how I know He has not yet left when I find the space next to me empty - his boots underneath the bed. The drawer still ajar, the sheets bundled haphazardly at the edge of the bed, the sound of his steps in the hallway. 

I memorized him. Every freckle, every stubborn strand of hair that refuses to be brushed. I memorized the sound of his footsteps, the way he rubs his hands when he’s irritated, the slight shift in posture when other people are around.

It was at the parties we had the most fun. We made a game of stealing glances and hiding our disdain for the Texas tycoons. We were hiding in plain sight, speaking a language only we knew. The thrill of the secret seemed unending.

* * *

That morning, when I woke up, He was not there. I was not surprised - Roger said he would arrive at ten, so He had probably left around eight.

I had found an engagement ring hidden in Roger’s things the day before. I would usually laugh about it, but this meant I had been there way too long. Engagement implies marriage, which implies considerable legal and bureaucratic processes I could not get myself into.

I had had a suitcase packed for a few weeks. I had already paid someone from the bank to get the money out quietly when the time came. All I needed to do was leave. I still could not bring myself to.

I had a quiet day with Roger. I let him beat me on chess and made him dinner. At night, he received a phone call. His forehead wrinkled with concern - whatever he was being told was not good news.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

“It was Sylvia Wilkerson.”

The name piqued my interest, but I tried to seem nonchalant. “Is she alright?”

“Yes… It’s very strange.”

“What is?”

“That boyfriend of hers… she says he left without a trace.”

My voice caught in my throat. I pinched myself - _ you are not supposed to care _ .

“Isn’t he just gone for a night out? Sylvia worries too much, sometimes, don’t you think.”

“I don’t think that’s the case this time. She says all of his things are gone, and there’s more - her bank account is wiped.”

“Oh, no.”

“It’s really- darling, are you alright? You look pale.”

I dropped my fork on the table and stood up. “I’m alright. I- I’m feeling a bit dizzy. I need to lie down.”

After Roger fell asleep, I took the suitcase from under the guest bed and the silver statue from the living room. I shut the door quietly and never came back.

**Author's Note:**

> I made the other character a man but the protagonist has no defined gender on purpose so feel free to interpret it however you want :)


End file.
